


Just Another Day by the Sea

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Bodie's alert for terrorists in Brighton, and watching over his partner, too.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Just Another Day by the Sea

Brighton Beach was swarming with holidaymakers, each and every one determined to make this rare twenty-nine degree weather memorable the next time they had to endure bitter, lashing rain. Locals and tourists alike had flocked to the seaside, sunbathing or splashing in the English Channel. There were small shops selling all manner of colourful souvenirs to the public, as well as a fortune teller, helium filled balloons, a coconut shy, and not one but two bands, situated on opposite sides of the arcade, vying for the honour of who could play the loudest.

In Bodie’s estimation, the best of all worlds would be for both to cease and desist. On the right was a bad Rolling Stones cover band contrasting with the traditional bagpipes and drum corps on the left. Combined, the percussion was so heavy Bodie could feel it in his breastbone. Rocking out to _Paint it Black_ was nigh on impossible with _Scotland the Brave_ rousing the troops.

From his vantage point amongst the al fresco seating for the hungry and fatigued, Bodie could survey most of the area. Which was the point. Much as he regretted being here for work instead of fun, this was a jewel of an assignment. That a terrorist group would dare disturb this idyllic scene was an affront to all that was good, true, and British. Thus, CI5 had been sent in to ferret out the villains. If that meant relaxing on a hot day on Brighton Beach, well, William Andrew Phillip Bodie was the man for the job. 

Paradise Pier stretched out into the sea on the left, and he itched to wander the enticing spot with Doyle on his arm. Or to be specific, patrol the area for anyone out of place on this marvellous day. Such as terrorists bent on nefarious deeds.

He hadn’t seen a single one, and the intel had been disappointingly vague on what method the perpetrators might take. Bombs? Bio-terrorism? How could he track down such an elusive target?

The scenery was gorgeous, particularly the scantily clad women sprawled on the beach anxious to obtain the sun-kissed glow most pale skinned Brits couldn’t achieve. The ocean waves lapped the shore, seagulls dive-bombing the picnickers for a stray chip.

Bodie squinted in the white noontime glare, searching between the shifting bodies traversing the promenade. There he was, slender hipped, wearing a green t-shirt, white linen jacket to hide his holster, and the tightest pair of jeans known to man.

Doyle emerged from the queue at the drink stall, juggling two sodas and a small sack. Pity they had to keep alert. Bodie would have preferred ale. He was parched, and peckish, too. With all luck, Doyle had bought crisps—Bodie was in the mood for prawn flavour. 

He shaded his eyes with one hand, tracking Doyle’s progress. Heat waves created ripples in the air, turning ordinary people into otherworldly creatures emerging from the earth. Made it difficult to distinguish fantasy from reality.

The discordant beat from the rival bands reverberated in his head, the drums and groaning bagpipes distorted by substandard speakers. Calling out to his partner would be an effort in futility.

The Faux Stones launched into _Jumpin’ Jack Flash_ , their audience singing along lustily, exactly at the moment the drum and pipes brigade began _Amazing Grace_ with a piercing note that could have split atoms.

When Doyle was almost in hailing distance, he glanced up from his armful, seeking Bodie. 

Their eyes met. Bodie grinned, waving him over. Doyle staggered, falling backward, cups and bags tumbling from his arms. The crowd around him reacted in horror, scattering. Several people pointed upwards beyond Bodie’s location, running or crouching in sudden fear. The bagpipes stalled mid-note, screeching to silence. It was only then that Bodie could hear the screams above Jagger pretender’s brash notes. 

He’d begun running toward Doyle without thinking, fighting the fleeing populace. The going was rough, terrified people shrieking. The roar of a high-powered weapon barked twice more as the Faux Stones belatedly realised the danger and abandoned their instruments.

Sliding to the pavement beside Doyle, Bodie reached toward his partner, continuously buffeted by people dashing past. Doyle lay awkwardly, his purchases crushed by dozens of running feet.

“Bo-die,” Doyle ground out through gritted teeth, “Go get the bastard before we lose ‘im.”

“How bad are you—“ Bodie tried to pull back the lightweight jacket, find the wound.

“Go!” Doyle hissed. “Got my R/T. I’ll call Murph—“ He gave Bodie a weak shove.

Unwilling to leave Doyle like that, Bodie recognised that his first duty was to Queen and country. Protect the people of Brighton. A lover was secondary in their world, even when injured. There was only one building along the seafront street tall enough for the shooter to have shot down on the promenade. An old fashioned place, the Old Ship Hotel, all white washed Victorian splendour. Pricey, not at all where CI5 had sequestered Doyle and Bodie.

Battling against the tide of terrified people, Bodie stopped to orient himself. He caught a glimmer of sun on metal up on the roof of the hotel. _There_ —gun still in place. Shoving past the deserted bandstand littered with guitars and drum set, Bodie pelted toward the blindingly white building. 

Was the sniper up there, too? Or had he fled once he’d initiated the chaos? Bound to be other innocent bystanders shot besides Doyle. Bodie gasped; felt like there was a fist clenched around his heart, making it difficult to breathe, especially in this heat. What if Doyle bled to death whilst Bodie was in pursuit of their suspect? Every fibre of his being yearned to turn around, abandon the chase, and carry Doyle to safety. 

Which Doyle would hate. Once patched up, he’d harangue Bodie up one side and down the other.

_How badly was he bleeding? Where had the bullet hit?_

Bodie rushed to the front of the hotel, sweat dripping into his eyes and down the back of his shirt. A man in fancy dress uniform, complete with yellow tasseled epaulets, was corralling a group of shocked tourists, most holding Japanese to English dictionaries. They whispered together, sounding like a flock of chirping birds.

Panting, Bodie pointed up at the roof. “A shooter?”

“Aye, sir. “ The man tapped his green-billed cap formally. “I’m Major Doctor. We’ve locked him in the luggage room.”

“Bodie!” Murphy emerged from the side street, RT in one hand, pistol clenched in the other. “We were over…Doyle hailed me.” He waved vaguely to the left. “Heard shots.”

“As did I.” Major Doctor had a proud, erect posture.

“This is Major Doctor, Murphy.” Bodie wiped his brow. He knew an ex-military man when he saw one. “Was in the SAS, myself,” he said, his heart still galloping nineteen to the dozen. If the gunman was already in custody, could he return to Doyle? “Report, Major.”

“I was giving these fine people,” Major Doctor waved his hand at the Japanese visitors, “directions to the Royal Pavilion for their tour when the shooting began. I was stationed in London during the Blitz,” he said proudly. “I knew what to do. Shelter in place and remain calm.”

“You saw the gunman?” Murphy asked impatiently. 

“My colleague, the head bellman, was suspicious when a group rented two second floor rooms. We know what weaponry looks like, even disassembled and hidden in amongst the luggage. He’d begun to unpack the cases, as is his job, but was told off by one of the group,” Doctor said sharply. “He’d already pegged the chaps as bad’uns. Informed the local constabulary.” He nodded as two panda cars rolled up. “Not ten minutes before the shots began.”

On edge, Bodie nearly gave the older man a firm shake, to wrap up the saga quicklike. He pictured Doyle lying flat out, blood… _There hadn’t been a drop of blood_. Bullet hole right through the linen jacket, not a spot of red. What the hell did that mean?

“He’s inside, mates,” Doctor directed as the coppers climbed out of their vehicles. “Coleman went to the roof immediately, nicked the blighter with his hand on the trigger.”

“Thank you, Major!” the lead constable said quickly. 

“Murphy, talk to the hotel staff—alert the mob,” Bodie ordered, anxious to be with his lover. “Doyle was hurt—shot.”

“He’s strong,” Murphy said. “Jax’ll be here in a tick.”

Bodie made it to the promenade moments later. With such a crowd, the heat seemed more intense than before but the Brighton police had begun to establish order out of chaos. Coppers were interviewing witnesses and scrolling out crime scene tape to cordon off the area. 

Three ambulances arrived, forcing Bodie to slow to a walk. Was one of those for Doyle? He craned his neck, searching the milling crowd for his partner. A few folk were crying or holding bloodied arms but he didn’t spy a single dead body covered by a tarpaulin.

 _There!_ Sitting a few feet from where he’d originally fallen, Doyle was talking to a uniformed copper. Not sure whether to laugh or cry, Bodie pushed down the blue tape wrapped between sign posts to step over.

“No admittance,” a voice said loudly.

Bodie turned, anger rising at the disruption. He was ready to punch the next person who kept him from Doyle.

The copper was big— professional wrestler big, with shoulders wide enough to pull a plough. A registration cap with the checkered band perched precariously on his mammoth head.

Bodie stood his ground, holding up his right hand and using the left to pull his warrant card. “CI5,” he identified himself. “Bodie. On assignment—“

“Partner’s over yonder,” the constable replied in basso profundo. “Told me to keep an eye out for you.”

Head of steam near to boiling with every step, Bodie was about to blow a gasket by the time he’d waded through the throng. 

“Thank God!” Doyle said, reaching out to him.

“You weren’t bloody shot?” Bodie raged, so furious he couldn’t think straight. “Thought you were this close to death, that I’d come back and find you…”

“Take this.” Doyle handed him a round tin, the sort hard candies came in. On the lid were the words “Sweets for my Sweetie”, although a bullet lodged directly in the centre made it difficult to read. 

His heart somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, Bodie went so abruptly lightheaded he had to sit down beside Doyle against the wall of the coconut stall. “What’s this, then?” he asked faintly. 

“Was Brighton Rock, and now evidence,” Doyle said, placing the tin in his hand. “Had it in me pocket. Bought it for you—“

_As he would have, since Doyle rarely ate candy._

“Bullet ought to match the one from the rifle up—“ Doyle started. 

Bodie kissed him. Hard, on the mouth, hugging him tightly. Didn’t care who saw them. He could always claim he’d been overcome by raw emotion that Doyle hadn’t given up the ghost. Which was absolutely true. 

Doyle groaned loudly, pulling away. “Leave off, I’m all black and blue.”

Bodie scrunched up his green t-shirt, partially to touch Doyle’s skin. Sure enough, there was a huge bruise on his chest, directly over the surgical scar where a bullet had been removed from his torso two years earlier. Under his palm, Doyle’s heart beat was strong.

“Trust you to find another use for candy,” he said, astonishingly grateful.


End file.
